


Too Hard, Too Soft (Not at all Right)

by countessrivers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Choking, Gun Kink, Gun play, Hair-pulling, Jerome being the worst, M/M, Minor Blood Kink, minor cum play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 23:52:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18559660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: “No, wait. What would be funnier is...”...“Yeah, yeah, do your thing.”Jerome has an odd, if not awful sense of humour.A complete bastardisation of the diner scene from 4x16 'One of my Three Soups'





	Too Hard, Too Soft (Not at all Right)

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Easter. Jesus died for our sins so lets make it worth it.
> 
> This is the most awful thing I have ever written, and I'm oddly proud of it. There's still a lot of feelings, far too many for a PWP, but I've resigned myself to that being inevitable with whatever I'm writing.
> 
> Borderline 'Dead Dove: Do Not Eat'. It's all in the tags, so you have been warned.
> 
> Enjoy.

_“No, wait. What would be funnier is...”_

_..._

_“Yeah, yeah, do your thing.”_

Bruce starts struggling, trying to kick out at the man on top of him as he pushes down, but he might as well be kicking a tree trunk for all the good it does. There’s a real panic growing now, so Bruce lashes out, aiming for the other man’s eyes. He’s not above fighting dirty, fighting smart, and if clawing at the man’s eyes gets him out of this alive, and _untouched_ , then Bruce will do it. The blow manages to land, Bruce scratching his nails across the man’s face.

“Fuck. You little bitch,” the man swears, clutching a hand to his face. Bruce doesn’t think he got him too deep, and certainly not deep enough to take out an eye, but it apparently hurt well enough. He can hear Jerome laughing off to the side, but Bruce doesn’t spare him a glance, and instead follows his first strike with a hit to the other man’s neck. The man brings both hands up to block him, giving Bruce a brief look of the damage he inflicted. He appears to have drawn blood.

Bruce manages to kick the man in the knee, which puts him off balance, but before he can fully press his advantage, the man uses his bulk to crowd Bruce back against the counter, fisting his hands in Bruce’s hair and slamming his head into the hard surface.

Bruce feels his head bounce with a sickening thud, and everything slips out of focus. His legs give way beneath him, and with Jerome’s continuing laughter ringing muffled in his ears, Bruce is unable to stop the man from flipping him around and pressing him down over the counter. Still dazed, Bruce tries to get his arms underneath himself to stand back up, but there’s a hand on his head, holding him down. He kicks backwards, unwilling to be pinned down, fear clawing at his throat, trying to hit something, but all that gets him is his head being smashed into the counter again.

The man behind him says something, Bruce can feel the vibrations and the displacement of air through the body pressed against him, but he doesn’t register the words.

He does hear Jerome though.

“Gentleman’s choice, Lunky,” Jerome replies to the unheard question. “But he certainly makes for a pretty picture, all limp and dazed, bent over the counter like that, doesn’t he? So whatever floats your boat big guy.”

The hand that’s not forcing Bruce’s cheek into the counter starts pushing his jacket up his back. It grabs at his shirt too, pulling it from where it’s still tucked into his pants and pushing it up to expose the bare skin of Bruce’s back. The large, warm hand slides up over his spine, under where his shirt and jacket have bunched up across his upper back, then scratches back down in a way that makes Bruce hiss and try to squirm away.

“No,” he says, flinching when the hand reaches around and starts pulling at his belt.

“Shut up,” the man says, letting go of Bruce’s head so that he can pull at his belt with both hands. He yanks it out of the loops once undone and tosses it somewhere behind him. It lands on one of the tables, Bruce would guess, and the resulting clang of the metal buckle landing echoes oddly in his ears.

His pants are even easier to get undone. Hands rip at his fly, tearing the zipper open and yanking both his pants and underwear down as soon as there’s enough give. They stop, caught around his thighs, which means Bruce is unable to kick back with any real force. He tries anyway, but the man doesn’t even seem to feel the hit to his shin.

He feels two hands grab his bare ass and squeeze hard enough that Bruce is certain there will be finger-shaped bruises left behind. He arches up on his toes, trying to get away, but with the counter’s edge digging into his stomach, there’s no where to go. Shivers run up and down Bruce’s body, and they can’t entirely be blamed on the diner’s air conditioning.

The man behind him eventually lets go, only to swing his hand back and smack it down hard on Bruce’s right cheek. The crack of his hand connecting is loud, and it pulls a cry from Bruce and a snort from Jerome. He dodges the elbow Bruce reflexively throws back at him, and hits him again in the same spot. This time he keeps his hand there, digging his fingers in again, only now the pain feels ten times worse.

Bruce feels another hand, this one gloved, ruffle his hair. He knows, even before looking, that it’s Jerome.

“Okay, I’ll be right back,” he says. “Don’t you boys go anywhere. And don’t start without me.” He emphasises the last with two unnecessarily heavy pats to Bruce’s head.

Straining his neck, Bruce is able to watch as Jerome, whistling as he does so, ducks around the counter and back out to the kitchen. He hears the sound of water running, followed by clangs that suggest Jerome is looking for something. Bruce doesn’t know how much time he has before he comes back.

“You don’t-, you don’t have to do this.”

The man, Lunky, Jerome had called him, leans down, pressing Bruce into the counter hard enough that Bruce finds himself struggling to breathe.

“I know I don’t have to,” he says, quietly, only for Bruce to hear. “And I’m certainly not doing this because that freak has a gun. You think I can’t snap the both of you in half like twigs? You think that I won’t?”

He slides a finger between Bruce’s cheeks and starts circling it around his hole, and god even that feels too big. There’s no way Bruce will be able to take-

“Because I will. Afterwards. I’ll kill the both of you as soon as I get off. As soon as I’m done fucking that tight little hole of yours. Got it, brat?”

Bruce throws his head back and enjoys the satisfying crunch the man’s nose makes when he connects. The man swears, and knocks Bruce’s head into the counter for the third time.

“Alright, alright, careful with that.” Bruce hears, rather than sees, Jerome skip back into the room. The hit hadn’t been as hard as the others, but three knocks to the head in less than five minutes means that his head is spinning, throbbing, and it takes far too long for his senses to fully return.

“I mean, unless you _want_ him unconscious.” Jerome is still talking. “Which, again, no just judgement here. Whatever gets you off.”

Something warm is trickling lightly down his forehead. Bruce shuts his eyes as it drips lower, and when he opens them, he sees drops of red on the counter.

Oh. He seems to have split his head open.

“Anyway, grabbed you this.”

Head wounds were always a pain, in every sense of the word. They bled so much.

“Hey, if you want shove what I am going to assume is a _significantly_ sized package into a teenager’s ass with absolutely nothing to smooth the way, then be my guest. _I_ was just trying to be _help-ful_.”

And this counter probably wasn’t the most sanitary of surfaces.

“Fine, give it here.”

He probably has a concussion.

Something is passed over his head, and then there’s a thump to his right as Jerome hefts himself up onto the counter next to him. Bruce blinks slowly at the black and white striped thigh sitting next to him.

“So, Brucie.” Jerome’s hand starts stroking through his hair again, and trying to shake him off does nothing but make the room spin, and earn him a stinging flick on the ear.  

“Lunkhead here and I go waaaaay back. All the way back to the circus, actually. He was always around to draw a crowd, always around to keep us kids in line, always happy to lend my dearest, loving uncle a hand when he was in a mood to beat and batter and rough us up.”

Jerome drags his thumb over the still-bleeding cut on Bruce’s head. Bruce can feel the blood smear across his skin and the pressure on the open wound stings. He looks up just in time to see Jerome scrutinize his bloody fingertip, rubbing his fingers together to spread the stain.

“But we’re all good aren’t we, Lunky?” he continues, still staring at the blood. “I mean, I can barely remember the last time you tried to torture and kill me. It was a whole ten minutes ago, and who remembers things that far back?”

If Lunkhead, if that is indeed his name, picks up on the thinly veiled danger, the promise, behind Jerome’s words, he doesn’t give a sign. He’s too busy pushing two of his fingers into Bruce’s ass. The fingers are slick with something, oil of some kind maybe, which would answer the question of what Jerome was looking for in the kitchen. But even with that, the fingers are big,

And it _hurts._

“Okay, yeah, he’s fucking tight.”

The fingers prod at his insides, thrusting a little and scissoring open to see how far he can stretch. It’s honestly not much, and that does not bode well for what is about to happen.

Jerome is still fiddling with his hair, humming under his breath as he does so. Bruce is refusing to look at him, focusing instead on steadying his breathing, but he can feel him pulling at his curls, twisting them around his fingers and tugging, sometimes hard enough that Bruce flinches.

When the fingers in his ass pull out, Bruce hears the wet slide of oil being spread over skin. There’s a part of him that sighs with grateful relief; it won’t be enough to make any of this easy – that ship has long since sailed- but it will hopefully make it slight less hard on him. At least physically.

It doesn’t mean he’s ready when a hand drops to his hip. It squeezes hard, and Bruce is probably going to have hand-shaped bruises there too. Another hand clamps down on the back of his neck, pinning him to the counter, and Bruce’s breathing speeds up dangerously fast when he feels the head of Lunkhead’s cock press against his hole

“You should have walked away when you had the chance, kid.”

Then he pushes in.

And mercy of mercies he at least moves slow, though it’s probably only for his own benefit. Even with oil, Bruce is tight, and on instinct his body is clenching down to keep the unwanted cock out. The man keeps moving though, keeps pushing in, and each portion of an inch burns him. Fills him to breaking.

“He has a point there, Brucie,” Jerome says, his commentary even more unwelcome than usual. “You never have been one for self-preservation. You should really be careful with that.”

“Shut up, shut up,” Bruce hisses, eyes screwed shut as his hands clench into fists beneath his head

“It might get you into _trou-ble_ ,” Jerome sing-songs over him.

Bruce thinks he might have laughed if he wasn’t too busy biting down on his tongue to keep from screaming, because Lunkhead is _still_ pushing into him, and there’s no way he can be any bigger and there’s no way he’s going to fit without tearing Bruce apart.

Jerome uses the grip he still has on his hair to pull his head up off his arms and turn it to the side so he can see him. Bruce keeps his eyes shut, but he knows his face is currently an open book.

 “Hmm, judging by your face right now Brucie, I’d wager everything’s in proportion. I mean, I honestly wouldn’t know. I was always a little too quick for him. As long as it was just him of course.”

Once he’s fully inside, once his hips are flush with Bruce’s ass, Lunkhead pauses, panting himself, and no doubt savoring the feeling of being sheathed inside him. When he does start moving again, it’s to pull out slowly, and Bruce is starting to think that slow is just as bad as fast, because he can feel everything. Every inch of cock as it rubs against his insides.

Jerome leans down to whisper in Bruce’s ear, words dripping with faux-concern.

“This isn’t your first time, is it?”

Bruce can’t quite stifle the sob that crawls its way out of his throat, even as he lashes out an arm that manages to catch Jerome in the face.

“Ow,” Jerome says, laughing.

Bruce can’t-, he can’t wrap his head around why.

Jerome is Jerome. Bruce honestly isn’t that surprised by him coming up with something as horrific as inviting the man Bruce, only minutes ago, saved him from, to bend Bruce over the nearest flat surface and fuck him while Jerome watched. It’s the kind of thing that he doesn’t have a hard time imagining Jerome doing.

(And he won’t even have to imagine it now anyway.)

But this other man. This man who is thrusting back into him, harsher and faster this time. Bruce can’t understand _why_.

He thinks back to the circus.

_They want an excuse._

The man, Lunkhead, had said as much, hadn’t he? He’s doing this, he’s fucking Bruce, raping him, because he can. Because he enjoys the power, maybe. Because he wants to take advantage of the opportunity for an orgasm. Because Jerome and Bruce gave him the opportunity. They gave him an excuse.

Lunkhead is properly fucking him now. Each stroke forcing its way into him, forcing his body to give way, to open up, setting his nerves alight and sending racking shudders down his spine. After a dozen or so strokes, Bruce feels the hand on his neck pull away, moving down to join the other at his hips, their weight and strength just as considerable, giving the man a better hold with which to pull Bruce off of his cock, and then back on. Each thrust feels just as brutal as the last, and it doesn’t seem, to Bruce at least, to be getting any easier.

Should it be? Two fingers roughly shoved up his ass and a bit of oil are certainly no replacement for proper preparation or foreplay. But surely it should be getting better.

He feels filled, stuffed beyond capacity, his hole stretched too far around the cock that feels like it shouldn’t be fitting inside him but somehow is, again and again, seemingly reaching deeper each time until Bruce can feel Lunkhead’s hips slapping hard against his ass with each thrust.

Bruce imagines that he can feel the man’s cock in his throat.

Jerome’s hand had disappeared from his hair about the time Lunkhead had moved _his_ hand from Bruce’s neck, or at least Bruce thinks it had. It’s still somewhat of a surprise when he feels the edge of Jerome’s gun (he’d almost forgotten about the gun) tap against his cheek, presumably in an attempt to get his attention. Bruce thinks about ignoring him, thinks about stubbornly keeping his eyes shut and, well, riding this out, but he doesn’t want to die. He really doesn’t, and ignoring Jerome is a very good way to end up dead, or at least badly maimed, so he forces his eyes open as the gun moves to rest against his jaw. Bruce tries to maintain eye contact when Jerome lightly drags the gun along his jawline, eventually stopping under his chin, where he presses the barrel against the soft skin and uses it to push his head back, but it’s hard. There’s something in Jerome’s eyes that makes Bruce want to look away.

Bruce has had people look at him with lust before. He’s had people look at him with anger and envy and jealousy, but the look on Jerome’s face, in his eyes, is something else entirely. Hunger is the only way Bruce can think to describe it. Jerome looks _hungry_ as he stares at him. He looks at Bruce like he wants to devour him completely. Devour every twitch and flinch, every gasp and moan that falls from his mouth.

He leans in close enough that Bruce can feels his breath on his face. Jerome must have washed off the soup stains when he went out the back to get the oil, because his face is clearer than it had been before. The newly bared skin, however, allows Bruce to see how red and inflamed the lower part of Jerome’s face is, some parts burnt badly enough by the boiling liquid that they’re starting to blister. Combined with the raised ring of scarring that ran around the edge of Jerome’s face, the sight is horrific.

It looks like it hurts, and given his current predicament, Bruce isn’t sure if he’s feeling too little sympathy for Jerome, or far too much.

A particularly hard thrust pushes Bruce forward, which also has the unfortunate side-effect of jabbing Jerome’s gun into his throat.

“Oops. Sorry,” Jerome says, entirely the opposite of sincere as Bruce coughs. He pats Bruce on the head with his spare hand as the one holding the gun backs off.

“Fuck!”

“What?” Jerome sounds almost annoyed to hear Lunkhead speak, and the hand in Bruce‘s hair clenches for a moment before relaxing again, though Jerome does still flick his eyes back over Bruce’s head to look at the other man.

“No, it’s just-, he clenched down, and it felt-, fuck, it felt-”

He thrusts hard into Bruce again, and Bruce tries to brace himself against the counter. Jerome has pulled the gun away, but he’s still far too close, and Bruce is having trouble swallowing around the twinge in his throat.

“Did he now? Jerome says slowly, looking back at Bruce. “Always so considerate, aren’t you Bruce? Lunkhead here shouldn’t have to do all the work while you just lay there and enjoy it after all. You should work that hole of yours. Make it good for him too.”

Jerome drags his hand from Bruce’s hair and trails his fingers down his jaw as he talks. When they stray a little too close to his mouth, Bruce snaps his teeth at them. He misses, but only just, and only because Jerome had yanked his hand back surprisingly fast.

He frowns down at Bruce, and for a good moment Bruce thinks he’s going to hit him. Lunkhead has stopped moving, possibly waiting for the same thing, but instead, Jerome reaches out that same hand and wraps it around Bruce’s neck. Bruce’s own hand jumps up to pull at Jerome’s, trying to get it off, but Jerome doesn’t budge. He none too gently urges Bruce’s head back down onto the counter, so that Bruce ends up with his cheek pressed against the cold, sticky surface.

Jerome shifts around, hand still firm around Bruce’s throat, and leans against the counter on his other side so that he can see Bruce’s face clearly. Bruce glares up at him, though he knows this is probably the least intimidating he has ever looked, and it’s likely to just amuse Jerome more than anything.

It’s the principle of it all though.

Once he’s presumably comfortable, Jerome starts squeezing Bruce’s throat as he nods at Lunkhead to start moving again, only lightly at first, but when he starts really pressing hard, effectively cutting off his air, Bruce can’t help but clench down on the cock thrusting in and out of his ass as he flinches, which seems to be exactly what Jerome wanted him to do, if the grin that appears on his face when Lunkhead groans behind him is anything to go by.

He does it again, after loosening his grip just enough for Bruce to pull in air, before squeezing down, this time for longer. He does it again and again, light flaring in his eyes as he watches Bruce struggle, gasp for air, body rocking between the cock in his ass and the hand around his neck. He watches as Bruce’s body involuntarily makes it worse for himself and better for the man fucking him, because it hurts when he clenches down. It makes the burn, the pain worse, but the man inside of him seems to be enjoying it, and Bruce can’t stop himself from doing it. Just like he can’t help clawing at Jerome’s hand, even though it’s not moving.

After the fourth (fifth?) time Jerome backs off, he pauses, brushing his thumb against Bruce’s jugular and looking down at him as he gasps against the counter. Jerome pulls his hand away as Lunkhead slows down, thrusts turning leisurely and shallow. Bruce wonders if Jerome had given him some sort of signal, or if the man was just happy enough to draw this out. Bruce can’t tell, nor does he particularly care either way. He’s too busy staring distantly off to the patch of wall he can see between Jerome’s arm and his side as he tries to still his spinning head and pull enough air in.

Jerome slouches down sideways onto the counter, fully into Bruce’s line of vision, and props his chin up with his fist while he smiles at him.

“How ya doing there, Brucie? Need a moment to catch you breath?”

Bruce lets out a somewhat pathetic sounding snarl at the question, which does nothing but make Jerome laugh. The gun must have disappeared somewhere, because once the laughter has petered off, Jerome reaches out an empty hand to brush his thumb across Bruce’s mouth. There’s no blood this time, but Bruce can taste the spit and the tears Jerome’s thumb wiped from his face when he slips it ever so slightly into his open mouth.

Bruce should bite down on the gloved digit, he really should, but he’s still panting, still trying to get enough air into his lungs, so all he does is let out a croaky moan that might be a word as Jerome pulls at his bottom lip and continues to stare at him with an eyebrow cocked. He seems almost expectant.

Is he waiting for Bruce to start begging? Waiting for him to plead for this all to stop? For him to break down?

He won’t. _He won’t._

_He can’t._

Bruce is floating, dizzy. His limp body is being pushed and pulled across the counter, his head is spinning, and every thrust from the man behind him sends a new line of fire racing up his spine. His throat stings when he swallows, his hips ache from being slammed into the counter’s edge over and over, and his skin crawls under the weight of the hands on his hips and the eyes on his face.

But he won’t. Not again.

Even if there is something else. Something else he’s having a harder and harder time ignoring the longer this nightmare goes on.

Bruce has thought about the night Jerome kidnapped him often, for a lot of reasons, and sometimes, sometimes he’s thought about the way Jerome had looked at him when he drove the staples into his arm, when Bruce begged him to stop. He’s thought about how it felt to have Jerome’s hand on the back of his neck, his knife hovering across his throat, his breath on his face. He’s thought about the things he felt from Jerome, the e _vidence_ , that he never allowed himself to acknowledge. He’s thought about what Jerome might have done to him, had his timetable not been so strict, and whether he would have dragged Bruce away to an empty tent, or done it all in front of a frenzied crowd of his followers.

He’s thought about it, and he’s hated it and himself and Jerome for it, but it’s never stopped him thinking.

He’s thinking about it again now.

There’s a sudden movement when Lunkhead pulls Bruce’s hips up, pushing his chest further up and across the counter. Bruce is forced onto his toes, and the change of angle somehow allows the cock deeper. It also pushes the head of the erection that has been steadily growing between his legs against the counter’s edge.

The feel of Lunkhead’s cock hitting his prostate has Bruce arching up, and he has to bite down on his tongue to keep whatever awful, embarrassing, _slutty_ sounds might have spilled out. He can feel the way his cock is smearing precum onto the underside of the counter and his bare stomach and god, what is wrong with him?

“Ooooo, do that again, Lunky.”

“Huh?” Lunkhead makes a vaguely questioning noise.

“Whatever is was you just did, big guy, do it again.”

He does, managing to hit Bruce’s prostate again, and the sensation has his eyes rolling back. He can’t quite keep the sob in this time, and apparently Bruce will clench down on a cock in his ass in pleasure as well as in pain, because Lunkhead groans low behind him as he pulls out before yanking at his hips hard, pulling him roughly back onto his cock.

That starts a cycle of rough, vicious thrusts that have Bruce moaning, clenching his hole, leaking onto his stomach, and hating himself. With his hips held in such a firm grip it’s easy to let himself slump onto the counter, little better than a ragdoll, and bury his head in his arms. Easier still to let the tears that aren’t entirely tears of pain/fear/anger fall.

Bruce knows, distantly, clinically, that it is nothing but a physical response, the result of the stimulation of his prostate gland, the consequence of adrenaline, fear. It doesn’t mean he’s actually enjoying any of this. It doesn’t mean it’s his fault.

But that’s hard to remember or take comfort from in the moment.

The only saving grace is that the man fucking him doesn’t appear to care whether Bruce enjoys himself or not. Lunkhead has no interest in adding to Bruce’s humiliation by making him like it. His only concern seems to be getting off, how tight Bruce is, and how certain reactions will make him clench up, which apparently makes the whole thing feel even better.

Bruce is nothing but a warm, convenient hole to this man.

And there is a part of Bruce that prefers that, because the alternative is Jerome, and Jerome is another matter entirely.

From the corner of his eye he can see that Jerome isn’t even watching the man behind Bruce, and Bruce knows that to Jerome, he doesn’t matter at all. Lunkhead isn’t important and absolutely none of this is about him. For all that he tried to kill Jerome ten, fifteen minutes ago, and would have had Bruce not interrupted, for all that he is in the processes of raping Bruce over a diner counter at Jerome’s suggestion, he doesn’t actually matter. All this man is, is an extension of Jerome, a tool with which he can inflict pain on Bruce, while keeping himself entertained.

One particularly hard (wonderful) thrust has Bruce blindly reaching out almost unconsciously. His hand lands on Jerome’s and before he can pull it back Jerome is snatching it up. He twines their fingers together in a gross parody of affection and the action draws a genuine sob from Bruce’s throat.

Jerome threads his fingers of his other hand through Bruce’ hair, tutting as he uses the grip to pull his head up.

“Come on, princess. No hiding. I wanna’ see _everything_.”

The angle is awkward with one of his hands trapped in Jerome’s grip and the other trying to keep him balanced, and Jerome is pulling at his hair so hard Bruce worries that he’s going to lose a chunk. He wants to snap at Jerome, hit him, make him bleed, claw his face right back off, but all he can do is watch him with half-lidded eyes, essentially helpless as his fingers scramble against the counter and the man behind him punches out a desperate string of gasps and moans with each thrust. Jerome drinks it all up, staring at Bruce’s face, looking absolutely ravenous with his own mouth open, tongue occasionally darting out to swipe across his lips. Bruce thinks he can hear him muttering under his breath. Something like “come on, come on”, but it’s hard to hear anything over the sound of skin slapping against skin and his own pounding heart.

It gets to a point where Bruce can’t stand to look at him any longer, so he squeezes his eyes shut, which makes it both better and worse. Better, because he doesn’t have to see Jerome, see the way he’s looking at Bruce, see the way he’s enjoying this. Worse, because when he can’t see Jerome, when he can’t see where he is, when he’s nothing but a hand clasped in his, he can, if he wanted to, pretend this isn’t happening the way it is. He can pretend he’s just having sex with someone, or someones, he actually cares about, or at least chose. Not a stranger who tried to kill him and _Jerome Valeska_. If he wanted to, Bruce could pretend he’s somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere where he wouldn’t have to be ashamed of exactly how hard and aching and leaking he currently is.

 Bruce is really tempted to just give in and start pretending.

“That’s it, darling,” Jerome says, taking Bruce by surprise by how close he suddenly is. “Good boy,” he whispers into Bruce’s ear, accompanied by a vicious yank on his hair, and the words and the sting send a wonderful, awful shiver through him. Bruce moans, which makes Jerome laugh. “We almost there precious?” Bruce moans again. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

It’s because Bruce has his eyes closed that he doesn’t really think anything of Jerome letting go of his hand. It’s why he doesn’t see the newly freed hand move until Jerome’s shoving the barrel of his gun into Bruce’s mouth. Bruce’s eyes snap open and he tries to pull away, but Jerome’s grip on his hair is firm enough that he barely moves.

The gun isn’t really that big, but Jerome is pulling his head back and the angle is awkward enough and Lunkhead hasn’t even paused in fucking him and it’s a gun in his mouth that’s being held by Jerome Valeska and Bruce _can’t breathe_.

Bruce can’t tell if Jerome’s finger is on the trigger or not, but he honestly doesn’t actually want to know and it doesn’t really make a difference either way, because Bruce is shuddering, eyes rolling back in his head as he comes, spilling all over himself and the counter. He thinks he’s probably screaming around the gun in his mouth.

Lunkhead seemingly takes that as his cue to finally stop drawing this out, and his thrust take on a more frantic, determined pace. Bruce barely feels it though; lost as he is under a fog of post-orgasmic haziness. Jerome lets his head drop after the final aftershocks of his orgasm peter out, and Bruce lets himself slump back down, only vaguely registering what was happening around him.

He regains his senses just in time to hear Lunkhead’s roar, to feel him come inside him, filling him up so much that he can feel cum leaking out around the man’s cock. It’s filthy, and uncomfortable, and Bruce feels _dirty_ , and he can’t stop the shivers that rattle his body.

He’s not sure what happens next.

“You’re crazy as fuck, freakshow,” Lunkhead says, breath labored as he comes down from his own orgasm. “But I can’t say you don’t have the occasional good idea. The kid was...something else.”

Jerome hums, seemingly in agreement.

The sweat on his skin is starting to cool, and Bruce finds himself shivering. Turning his head to the side, he eyes the way Jerome has started tapping his gun against the counter. The barrel of the gun looks shiny, and wet, and even after all this, Bruce can’t help but blush at the sight, because yes, the gun was currently wet because just moments ago it was in Bruce’s mouth, and the act of Jerome shoving it in there had essentially made Bruce come.

He flicks his eyes up to Jerome himself, and _satisfied_ is the only word Bruce feels he could use to describe the look on Jerome’s face in this moment.

Jerome notices him looking and grins down at him. Then he winks, raises the gun, and fires.

Bruce flinches, and there’s a long moment where he thinks he’s been shot. His ears are ringing, he can’t see or hear, everything aches, and he genuinely believes that Jerome has just shot him.

But then he feels Lunkhead twitch unnaturally, and he has to cling to the counter when the man stumbles back and slumps to the floor. It burns when the man’s cock pulls out of him so fast, and Bruce has to squeeze his eyes shut and bite down on his arm as he breathes harshly through the pain and the filthy feeling of cum starting to leak out of him.

Once he can, he opens his eyes and tries to right himself. His legs can barely hold him up, he aches, his pants and underwear are still caught around his thighs, and there’s cum covering his stomach and dripping down his legs. He somehow manages to stay on his feet though. Keeping one hand on the counter and pulling down his shirt and jacket with the other, Bruce forces himself to turn around, where he sees Lunkhead, sprawled out on the floor, pants still open, cock out, with blood and brain matter leaking from the hole in his head.

As Bruce tries to steady himself, and stop himself from vomiting everywhere, Jerome hops back up onto the counter and slides across to the other side before plopping down in the seat closest to Bruce.

“Hmmm,” Jerome frowns down at the dead man, his voice coming through to Bruce clearer now. “I thought I had something for this. Something about coming and going.” He shakes his head. “Oh well, never mind.”

He swings his body around on the seat to face Bruce.

“So,” he says, slapping his hands down on his thighs. “Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

With his current general state and the fact that his pants are still around his legs, Bruce is in no condition to start any kind of fight, but that doesn’t stop him from lunging at Jerome all the same, fist catching his nose before he reaches for his neck.

Ignoring his bloody nose, Jerome catches one of his hands and uses it to pull Bruce between his legs. Ignoring Bruce’s struggles, he then guides the hand back behind Bruce with one of his own. Bruce jerks forward when Jerome slips their fingers between his cheeks, trying to get away from the touch, but all that does is press him more firmly against Jerome, and makes it harder to ignore the sizable clothed erection that presses against his stomach.

(Hadn’t Bruce been thinking earlier about the boardwalk circus?)

Jerome squeezes Bruce’s hand hard enough that Bruce legitimately worries he might break something, before he straightens out two of Bruce fingers and pushes them unceremoniously into Bruce’s ass.

“No!” Bruce manages to choke out. “Stop. What are you-?” His free hand pushes against Jerome’s chest, but that just pushes Bruce himself backwards, and more firmly onto his own fingers. When he tries pulling at the hand Jerome has on his own, that one’s snatched up too, and caught between their chests when Jerome urges him closer.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Jerome hushes as he hooks his chin over Bruce’s shoulder to stare down his back. Bruce tries pulling his fingers out of himself, but Jerome lets him move only a couple of inches before he’s pushing Bruce’s hand back in. The sound of his fingers pressing through the cum still leaking from his hole seems loud and obscene to Bruce’s ears in the now quiet diner.

“Feel that, Brucie?” Jerome takes hold of Bruce’s hand and starts thrusting Bruce’s fingers in and out. “Feel how wet and loose and sloppy you are?”

Jerome’s right. Bruce is loose. Two fingers area nothing compared to what he’s already had up there, but it feels 100 times worse. Maybe it’s because it’s his own fingers. Maybe because it’s Jerome controlling them, guiding them in and out of Bruce’s hole as he presses their bodies together. Maybe it’s because Bruce feels dirty and used up and his own come is splashed and drying across his stomach.

The anger’s been drained away again, and all Bruce feels like doing is sobbing, He can’t help but do exactly that when Jerome slides two of his own fingers inside him alongside Bruce’s. They’re longer than his, and after a little prodding, made all the more unbearable by how sensitive Bruce is, Jerome manages to brush across his prostate. Bruce cries out again, and this time it’s closer to a moan.

Jerome thrusts their combined fingers in and out, occasionally brushing his thumb, or a third finger against his already stretched out rim.

“I reckon you might be able to get your whole hand up there if you really tried.”

Jerome licks at the cut on his head and follows the trail of dried blood where it’s snaked down the side of his face.

“Stop. Please.” It’s quiet, almost whispered, but Bruce doesn’t need to shout his surrender. Jerome is right there. Jerome is listening for it.

“That a’ boy.”

Jerome pulls his fingers out of his ass, allowing Bruce to do the same. He wipes them on the shirt tails hanging out from beneath Bruce’s jacket, before smacking a kiss on his temple and setting him more-or-less upright against the counter.

“So that was fun,” he says, springing to his feet and making a show of straightening himself up.

As Jerome steps back, Bruce takes the opportunity to pull his pants up. The cum is drying uncomfortably, and it will only get worse, but he can’t stand being exposed for even another second.

“Unfortunately, I have lots to do and a number of very important places to be, so as much as it breaks my heart to leave you here all on your lonesome, I’m afraid that I must be off, darling.”

Jerome blows him a kiss and turns for the exit. Bruce knows he’s not in any state to stop Jerome, he can barely stand, but he can’t just let him walk out of here. Jerome came to this place for a reason. He came for information, that he presumably got, and then he killed three people. Whatever he’s planning, Bruce cannot just let him go. He just doesn’t know how to stop him.

However, just before he reaches the door, Jerome stops.

“No, you know what?” he says, spinning back around. “There’s no point in me looking a gift horse in the mouth.” He strides back over to Bruce and grabs his arm. “I’m going to just cut out the middle man here, and take me with you now.”

“What?” Bruce tries yanking his arm out of Jerome’s grip.

“I w _as_ planning on having Jimbo bring you to me once I had everything in order. But why wait? You’re here now, and I doubt you’re ever going to be this easy to subdue again. Also, Bruce if you try and hit me again, I will shoot you in the knee.”

Bruce freezes with his free arm pulled back and lowers it slowly when Jerome taps the gun against his chest.

“That’s better. Now are you going to be good, or am I going to have to start adding some extra holes to you?”

Bruce takes in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. It’s just like when Jerome broke into the manor, he tells himself. Bruce just needs time. He’ll find a way to escape, or someone will come looking. He just has to keep himself alive long enough, and this way, he might be able to work out what Jerome’s planning.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Excellent.” Jerome claps his hands together. “That’s what I like to hear.” He throws an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, and despite himself, Bruce leans into it, and tells himself it’s only to keep Jerome’s guard lowered.

“I actually have someone I am just dying to introduce you to.”

Bruce tries to skirt around the puddle of blood that’s spread out around Lunkhead’s body, but with Jerome dragging him along he can’t quite keep his shoes clean.

‘Say,” Jerome says as he steers them out the diner’s front door. “Do you happen to know what the time is?”

Bruce does indeed have a watch, but he’s hardly inclined to give Jerome anything right now, even the time.

“Why?” he asks warily.

“Oh, I just want to know if we’ll need to be on the look-out for people falling from the sky, or if we’ll need to make a detour to bust someone out of GCPD lock-up instead.”

**Author's Note:**

> How do people end fics?
> 
> Also, this is my first time properly writing Jerome (that I've published at least). Was he at least semi recognisable?
> 
> And my [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/) is over here.


End file.
